


Night - Fogwell's

by wolfy_writing



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:44:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14972384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfy_writing/pseuds/wolfy_writing
Summary: Set between S2 and the Defenders





	Night - Fogwell's

Matt crept through the window of Fogwell’s Gym. He took off his hoodie and set his bag down.

He didn’t wrap his hands. If anyone had seen him, they would have rushed over to correct him.

But he’d come in the dead of night so no one would be around to see.

—

Growing up, Matt learned two lessons about courage - one from his father, and one from everyone else.

Between the two of them, he preferred his father’s version.

Courage, as the world presented it to That Poor Blind Kid was a close kin to pity. He was so brave, they said, their voices dripping with pity. It must take so much courage for him to carry on like that.

So much fucking courage they attributed to him, just for going to school, walking around, eating a meal, drawing breath after breath, just for _existing_.

You couldn’t take pride in courage like that. You couldn’t do anything but squirm uncomfortably, wondering how bad they thought your life was, that it took courage to get through every single second.  Wonder why they looked at you and found it so surprising you didn't lay down and die.

Courage, as taught by Jack Murdock, was a strong, lively thing. Something you could take pride in. It tasted like the burn of that first taste of whisky. Jack Murdock courage meant you fought, meant you got hit hard enough that it hurt, and you got up and licked the blood from your wounds and hit back harder and harder, until you won or you dropped.

People might feel for you with courage like that, wince when they saw the bruises, but they wouldn’t _pity_ you.

Matt had known how to _live_ like that, fighting and bleeding and getting knocked down and back up and going again and again until someone dropped.

He’d been good at it, until it had all gone wrong.

—

Matt hit the bag rapidly with a couple of sharp jabs, a right cross, and an uppercut. His knuckles were starting to bleed. He was going to have to clean the bag before he left.

He didn’t stop.

—

He didn’t need to practice like this. He’d given up the suit. He’d _chosen_ to give it up, after Elektra died.

He’d chosen to do what Foggy insisted on calling “fighting battles in the courtroom”, where if he failed, it was possible to file an appeal. Where there was no blood, no bruises, no learning how many hits he could take and still get up again, but at least no one died.

(He’d secretly been impressed with himself over being able to survive a gunshot to the head, at least until his hearing had cut out. That had scared the shit out of him, and for a few hours he’d gone from “Big damn hero” to “How badly have I fucked up my life?”)

(But it passed. That kind of hurt usually did.)

He pushed through, day after day. Going to work and trying to tune the sounds of the street out, walking around the neighborhood hoping he didn’t sense anything, eating three meals a day, drawing breath after breath, just _existing,_ with nothing to fight.

He wouldn’t call it _courage_ , what it took to live like that, but it definitely took _something_.

And what it took was damn near all he had.

That was why he broke in like this. Why he fought the bag without gloves, without bothering to even wrap his hands.

He had to fight _something_ , or else go mad.

( _“I’m only going to say this once,” said Foggy. His heart was racing, and Matt could smell the stress hormones coming off him. “If you ever want to talk to someone about everything that happened, some kind of professional...”_

_“Foggy...”_

_“Let me finish - if you **ever** want to talk to a professional, I can help you find someone trustworthy. And I don’t know what your finances are like, but with this job, I have more than enough money to pay for it.” _

_“Foggy...I...appreciate the offer, but...”_

_“Look, don’t explain. Because if you explain, you’ll start trying to argue it like a case, and I know how you are when you’ve made a case against something. Just remember I offered, okay?”_

_“Okay. Thanks.”_

_Foggy had changed the subject and they'd both moved on._ )

People thought, because he didn’t crumble into a ball of whatever they expected of him, that Matt was somehow purer or more enlightened, above all of those negative emotions.

Or, if they saw a flash of anger, they thought he was a bitter cripple, angry at the world that took his eyesight away.

And he was, sometimes.

But not half as angry as he was about a world that took his _father_ away.

His father. His mother. Elektra.

(And the Kingpin threatened Foggy, was planning to go after Foggy, Matt pushing Foggy away may have kept the _next_ bad guy from targeting him, but with Kingpin it was only a matter of time...)

—

Matt punched the bag so hard he felt something break.

It was a small bone, in his left thumb. Hairline fracture, probably.

He felt it gently, to ensure it wasn’t going to heal crooked. Then he sucked the blood off his knuckles.

He did that every time. The salt taste was comforting, as was the pain.

It reminded him of fights, where the problem was as simple as taking the other guys down before they took you down.

It reminded him of Elektra’s laugh, the bold, fearless laugh when she uncovered his secrets like rare jewels.

It reminded him of his dad.

He then reached into his bag, being careful with his injured thumb, and pulled out a spray bottle and a rag.

The bag wiped down, no trace left behind, he crept back out the window.

He would come back, he knew. Not until his thumb healed, but he would come back.

Foggy wouldn’t approve.

Elektra wouldn’t have either, but for a completely different reason.

It seemed like everyone had someone they wanted Matt to be, and none of them included this.

It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t normal.

But for at least half an hour every night, he didn’t have to be normal, or healthy, or who other people expected him to be.

He didn’t have to Matt Murdock, That Nice Blind Lawyer.

For half an hour every night, he got to be real.


End file.
